Princess Charming Read Online Free PDF

have no obligation.”
    “Of course not.”
    Crispin’s agreeable responses had their intended effect. Nick took a deep breath and let his shoulders slump. “Front door or kitchen door?”
    “Definitely kitchen door,” Crispin replied.
    “Yes, I suppose so.” Nick glanced at his boots. “No need to clean up, then.”
    “No, I’d say not.”
    “You’ll provide the necessary distraction in the drawing room?”
    “With pleasure.”
    He eyed his friend. “You’re enjoying this immensely, aren’t you?”
    Crispin laughed. “Of course.”
    “Go to the devil,” Nick said and strode from the room.
    THE KETTLE WAS whistling when Lucy entered the kitchen, but Cook, a pale imitation of the redoubtable Mrs. Selkirk, dozed peacefully in her chair, a half-empty bottle of sherry dangling from her hand. Lucy swiped at her skirts and smoothed her hair, hoping that despite the events of the afternoon, her appearance would not be too remarkable.
    She grabbed a cloth to wrap around the handle of the kettle and with trembling hands poured water into the waiting teapot. What she needed, of course, was to disappear for a day or two to throw Lord Sidmouth’s bloodhounds off the scent, but the chances of that happening were remote at best. Even more, she wished that the two thugs might disappear themselves, before they could report her activities to the Home Secretary, whose persecution of reformers had made him the most hated man in England. Wishing for such things, though, was like wishing for the attentions of Lady Belmont’s new gardener—seductive, but far too dangerous and not likely to lead to any good result.
    Setting the delicate china pot on a tray, she added cups and saucers. She willed her hands to stop shaking as she sliced the last bit of cake, adding it to the sandwiches Cook had managed before the sherry overcame her. I will not go to pieces. Instead, she would address her difficulties one at a time, as each obstacle presented itself. Until the thugs appeared again, she would maintain the pretense of normalcy.
    Overhead, a bell clanged, evidence that someone in the drawing room tugged impatiently at the pull. Lucy left the kitchen and trotted up the stairs, balancing the tray with an experienced hand. The door to the drawing room stood ajar. Lucy nudged it open with her hip and, squaring her shoulders, entered the room.
    “There you are, you wretched girl!” The Duchess of Nottingham reclined on a sofa, her sal volatile close at hand. The weight of her turban alone with its affixed plumes and jewels would have bowed most women’s heads, but the duchess’s languid pose was as assumed as her gentility. “Where have you been? We have waited an age for the tea.”
    Lucy feigned meekness and set the tray on the low table in front of her older stepsister, Bertha, who eyed it greedily. The younger of her stepsisters, Esmerelda, sat in a chair at the opposite end of the room with her nose buried in a book.
    “I was in the garden,” Lucy replied. No need to say whose garden.
    The duchess sniffed. “Grubbing in the dirt, no doubt!” She turned to her two daughters, only one of whom was attentive to her invective. “Let this be a lesson, girls. Young ladies of true gentility may take a turn about a garden on the arm of a gentleman, but they would never actually dig in it!”
    “Of course not, Mama.” Bertha shifted her bulk as she reached for a piece of cake. “Flowers aren’t edible. Of what use is a garden?” She narrowed her eyes at Lucy. “Where is the rest of the cake?”
    Esmerelda paid no heed to the conversation, merely turned the page of her book and continued to read.
    Lucy shrugged and turned to her stepmother. “If there’s nothing further?” She was anxious to return to the kitchen and watch for Sidmouth’s men.
    “Wait!” Bertha snapped. “She cannot have been in the garden all the while. I looked there before.” She eyed Lucy with triumph, her mouth curving into a satisfied smile that